


the echo of the flower of Dreaming

by jelliebean



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Civil War Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 05:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11351265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelliebean/pseuds/jelliebean
Summary: Tony can’t answer for a minute.  He thinks about home.  He thinks about the Avengers, about Steve. He thinks about waking up in the middle of the night, that first night, of being held close to Steve’s chest, even though he was asleep.  He remembers thinking that he finally understood what home meant.  He remembers the shield coming down through his suit, lodged in his arc reactor.  He sleeps and eats and works in the tower, but it isn’t home.  “This isn’t home,” is all he manages.





	the echo of the flower of Dreaming

“Steve?” Tony asks when he picks up the phone.  He doesn’t need to ask. No one else left him a little flip phone.  No one else underdelivered on his promises so spectacularly.

“Tony,” comes the frayed reply.  It’s a little late for that. It’s a little late for sympathy, after Siberia.

“What do you want?” Tony asks instead.  Maybe it’s business.  He can handle business. 

“I want to…” Steve thinks of lying next to Tony, stretched out, sunshine warming them both.  He remembers the way Tony had smiled when Steve had brought coffee and a tiny bouquet of flowers.  The way he’d touched the petals. The way he’d smiled, and stayed, that first morning, how he hadn’t run away.  

Tony thinks of the same morning, of Steve’s heavy thigh resting over his. He remembers thinking he’d never wanted to stay before.  He can picture Steve’s eyes, hopeful, so tentative. He swallows hard, throat suddenly aching.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. Like he’d said in the letter. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t mean to lie to you. I thought I’d have more time, so I could figure out how.”

“So you said,” Tony replies.  “I get it. I hear you.  What do you want?” He should have told him.  It destroys Tony that he didn’t. That he kept it from him.  His mother. Rationally, he knows Steve would have told him, when he found a way.  Rationally, he can see it was Hydra, it wasn’t Barnes.  But unfortunately, only the suit is mechanized.  Tony Stark is still human.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I couldn’t let you. Not when it, not when it wasn’t him,” Steve continues, like he’s heard Tony’s thoughts.  The unfortunate side effect, Tony thinks, of working so well as a team.  Anticipating each other’s moves. 

“And?”

“I want…” Steve’s voice goes colorless. Tony’s fairly sure he’s crying.  He’s whispering. “I want to come home. I’ll sign, I’ll turn myself in. I’ll do anything.”

Tony can’t answer for a minute.  He thinks about home.  He thinks about the Avengers, about Steve. He thinks about waking up in the middle of the night, that first night, of being held close to Steve’s chest, even though he was asleep.  He remembers thinking that he finally understood what home meant.  He remembers the shield coming down through his suit, lodged in his arc reactor.  He sleeps and eats and works in the tower, but it isn’t home.  “This isn’t home,” is all he manages. 

There’s a silence, on the other end.  It’s too silent.  The call is still live, but there is absolutely no sound.  No wind.  No ambient noise.  It lasts a few moments.  Then he can hear Steve again.  His voice is ragged, but polite.  “Of course.  I’m sorry for calling.  But please, keep the phone.  I mean what I said.  If you ever need me, I’ll be there.”

Tony nods.  Not that it matters. He says, “Take care of yourself, Rogers.” He can say that. It tears him up inside, but he can say it without screaming.

“You too, Tony,” comes the polite response.

The line clicks. 

A week later, a new masked superhero appears.  He calls himself Nomad. 

\---

Tony doesn’t understand how all of America can be so stupid.  Steve is just wearing a mask, for christ’s sake.  A mask that clearly he made using the front of his new spangle-less but still very tight and now even more revealing uniform.  Not that Tony is complaining, exactly, it certainly makes a nice poster, and he’s seen a few of them up around town.  But how have they not looked at the way he fights—the same tactical genius is at work.  The way his shoulders always hit the target head on.  The speed he carries.  Tony hasn’t even seen him in person, just the footage from newsreels. 

He follows him, maybe a month later.  Steve has this little battle well in hand, so Tony merely tags along, in the shadows.  After Steve hits the last killer robot squarely in the what’s-probably-a-head, he turns halfway toward Tony.

“I can hear you, you know.  The left knee joint is making a squeak when you rotate laterally.”

Tony knew he should have fixed that. Supersoldier hearing and all. He steps from his alcove.  “Where’s your team, Steve?”

He doesn’t look surprised Tony knows it’s him. A small sad smile dashes across his face and disappears.  Tony hates that look.  It hurts him, still. 

“There’s no team, Tony.  It’s just me.”

“Barnes?”

Steve takes a step back.  A step away.  He sits down against a block of rubble on the ground, folds his legs in, exposing his stomach, leaving it unprotected.  Making it more difficult for him to get into an aggressive stance.  Tony knows what he’s doing; animals do the same thing.

“Back in cryo.  Until there’s a way to get him better.  He said it’s better this way. He’s always been stubborn.”

“Jesus, Steve.  Pot, kettle.”

“Hey!” Steve exclaims.  “He’s always been more stubborn than me, he just won’t admit it.”

“Sure,” Tony agrees, not agreeing at all.  “Wilson? Barton?”

“I sent Barton home. The farm house isn’t documented.  Sam’s having the time of his life ziplining around Wakanda like a maniac.”

“Sort of like flying, huh?”

“What he says, anyway. I’ve never been all that into it.”

“Yeah, you just jump off shit and hope for the best, no zipline for you.”

“You always catch me,” Steve says. “Caught me,” he corrects himself. He looks watery at the edges.  Then he pulls himself together.  “Anyway.  No team.” He gives what he thinks is his patented “I’m fine” grin.  It isn’t. 

Tony considers that.  It’s bad news.  He’d thought maybe there was backup somewhere.  Nah, he’d hoped there was.  Steve Rogers functions best with a team.  They hold him back from being reckless, from putting himself in the crosshairs every goddamn time. “Healing factor,” he’d always grin, as if that meant anything against well-aimed bullets. As if Tony doesn’t—still—stop breathing when Steve gets hurt.

He wants to punch Steve in his stupid inconsiderate face.  Instead he takes off, the suit guiding him to the tower.  Steve stays where he is, on the ground, watches him go.

 ---

Nomad shows up to help fight a pack of aliens a few weeks later.  Turns out they’re just lost.  Takes Steve Rogers to figure it out though.  Of course he does.  He goes by goddamn “Nomad.”  Tony ends up having to reverse engineer a tiny balance for their ship, to help them get back on track.  He takes Steve with him back to the tower, because the idiot has a giant burn on his side, where a panicked alien had gone right through whatever flimsy spandex product he’s using as a uniform.  Costume, more like.

He’s wearing restraints.  It was a requirement he’d made for coming back with Tony to the tower.  They’re coded to Tony’s commands, something he’d made when they were together, something they’d never gotten to try.  Tony is struck by how not sexy this is.  He’s struck by how easily he could call Ross, deliver him his most desired fugitive. 

“How do you know I won’t just leave those restraints on and call Ross?”

Steve glances at his wrists. “I said I would do anything.” His voice is raw, but he looks at Tony directly. “I mean it, Tony.  I’ll do anything you want.”

Tony doesn’t answer. Gets his burn kit, never turning his back.  He knows Steve notices. 

 “Who the hell came up with this thing, anyway?” Tony asks, removing fragments of stretchy fabric. 

Steve blushes.  It travels down his chest still.  “I thought it was something no one would expect from Captain America.  It’s so…”

“Sexy catwoman Halloween costume?”

“I was going to say revealing. It’s not wholesome, the way Captain America was presented.”

Steve doesn’t move as Tony cleans the burn, has to scrub at it to remove the bits of spandex that melted into his flesh.  He doesn’t flinch.  He just watches Tony, careful, expressionless.  Tony would be confused by what’s going on in Steve’s brain, except he knows Steve, now.  That gentle blank expression is just camouflage.  He’s bleeding inside, a mess, shredded up.  Tony can’t decide how he feels about it.  Not glad, though.  It doesn’t make him happy.

 “Well, you’re not wrong,” Tony says. “Although I don’t understand how they don’t see it’s your chest on display just because it doesn’t have a shiny white star on it.  Of course, I guess they haven’t come all over that chest before.” He says it without thinking.  No, that’s not true. He knows it will hurt them both.  He says it anyway.

Steve goes red, then white.  He makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat.  Keeps that calm demeanor fixed in place.

“Sorry,” Tony mutters.

“No, you’re. It’s.” Steve swallows. “It’s okay.” _I deserve it_. “It’s true.” His side is already starting to heal.  It’s unfortunate. He likes focusing on that feeling. It helps.

Tony sighs.

Steve knows he’s done. He awkwardly hops off the workbench with his wrists still bound and steps outside the door.  “Am I locked out?”

Tony hesitates.  Actually, he’s not.  He’s never changed the coding for the door.  He gives a brief command to Friday, missing Jarvis terribly.  That one’s on him, though. He nods, releases the restraints.  The cuffs open. 

Steve sets them gently on the ground.  Tony can see a thousand apologies, a thousand pleas in his eyes.  Watches Steve check himself, rein it all in. He says, “Thank you, Tony.”

Tony nods.  “Lie low for a few, would you?”

Steve smiles faintly. “I’ll try.”

\---

Nomad keeps a low profile for a few weeks. Sort of. Tony notices that some of the robots lying in the rubble after the next battle don’t have repulsor blasts on them.  He’d been on this one alone.

It happens again. 

And again. 

Eventually Tony throws his hands up. The idiot doesn’t have a weapon—not even a goddamn shield. Tony goes back to the tower and opens a familiar file of measurements.

\---

It’s ludicrous how fast Steve shows up outside his workshop door once Tony texts him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, out of breath.

“Nothing’s wrong. Come in,” Tony responds. 

The door doesn’t open.  Steve doesn’t move. “Where are the…” he asks.

“You can’t.  I have a thing for you. You can’t wear them and try it on.”

He sees Steve’s eyes widen as he understands, sees his eyes find the folded material on the workbench.  Then his jaw sets, stubborn. “The workshop is yours.  It’s.  You feel safe here.  I won’t take that from you.”

Jesus this man is difficult. “Barnes is the stubborn one, huh? Just come in.  I’m fine. How else can I see if it fits right? If I need to make modifications?”

“I can’t, Tony.  Sam says… Sam says I have to know when you won’t say what you need, when you put your needs aside.  And he’s right.  So I won’t come in there.  Not without some way for you to know you’re safe.”

Tony mutters a few curses. “You can’t just go romping around the tower. I don’t know what you want me to do.  I mean, what, you wanna strip down where you are?”

Steve looks around.  Tries to think of a better solution.  Doesn’t see one.  He starts pulling off his costume in the goddamn hallway.

Tony squeezes the uniform through the package delivery slot.  It barely fits.  It’s a little bulkier than the eighties-style get up Steve was wearing a minute ago. He tries not to look at Steve’s body, but it’s impossible.  He’s still so beautiful.  He’s still so familiar.  Tony’s fingers ache to touch him. Steve straps on the new uniform.  Moves around, twists.  It’s perfect.  He fabricated it out of a design he’d had sitting around, the basis of a new Cap uniform.  Better protection and flexibility. More streamlined. Steve looks breathtaking in it, the plunging neckline not much protection, but once Steve commits to a design, there’s no budging him.  He sticks to it.  Once Steve commits to anything, Tony thinks. 

Then he remembers. Steve will give it all up. For him. The responsibility, the fear, it’s suffocating.  Tony blacks out the workshop and waits until he’s gone. 

\---

Nomad works well with Iron Man, reports say.  Not as well as Captain America had, but still.  There’s something there. They tend to work from opposite ends of a battle, rather than in the thick of it together. The media adores Nomad and his sweaty, naked, well-displayed chest.  He never handles the press anymore, lets someone else do cleanup and interface with the public.  Then one day, after a particularly long battle against someone who seems not to realize that Hydra’s dead, one of the commentators brings up the Accords, asks if Nomad has already signed, and if not, if he shouldn’t be locked up. 

Fuck.

Tony gets legal to start working on the Accords, fixing them, providing provisions that he’d always meant to use as amendments from the start. Before everything went to hell.

He finds Steve on a rooftop.  It’s dark, a crescent moon barely lighting up the night sky.  He’s wearing the new uniform. He’s sitting on the edge, looking down at the streets below.  Tony knows Steve can hear his boots, the repulsors, but Steve doesn’t turn around. Stays with his unprotected back toward the suit.

“You’re Bruce Wayne now? Want a giant signal light?”

Steve still doesn’t turn.  “I saw the news, Tony.”

 “I’m working on it.  Just, stay hidden for a while.  Please.” The night is so silent he feels like his words carry, even though he’s speaking quietly.

“If that’s what you want.” Steve shifts so he’s looking Tony in the eye and tries a grin.  “I’ll wait for your batsignal.”

\---

And he does.  It works.  It works until Tony is outnumbered (he always is), surrounded (he always is), and the suit is damaged.  Giant sewer rats, the size of golden retrievers and glowing an unhealthy purple, mob him, razor claws scratching into the metal plates of the suit. Tony’s unsure what his next move is when a flash of black polymers catches his eye.  The fight’s a little more even.  Steve takes on more than his share, although Tony’s not sure that the suit is going to hold up well to the glowing purple claws.  He just hopes they’re not poisonous, too.  Eventually, they’re winning, only a few of the horrible sewer rats left. Steve’s caught one leaping toward his face when Tony puts down the last one on his side.  Tony turns, gauntlet raised, to blast the purple beast, and Steve flinches hard. It lets the rat scratch him deep across the chest. The suit holds up, but he’s bleeding profusely from his sternum. There’s a crack, and the rat goes limp, the glow fading.

Tony feels like he’s been hit in the chest again, like the reactor’s been cracked again. 

He’s played the fight over and over in his mind, always seeing Steve lifting that shield.  He’d thought Steve was going to kill him, even though he knows better.

It shocks him to realize that Steve’s afraid, too.  That Tony hadn’t pulled his punches, he’d blasted Steve in the chest, decimating that star.  Tony’s not the only one who’s been hurt. And abandoned. Steve thought—no, he knew—that Tony would kill Steve if it meant he could kill Barnes.  And in that moment, he’d been right.  But here he is, bleeding and bleeding to stand next to Tony.

Steve starts forward, stops. Takes one deliberate step back.  “Tony, it’s—“ he starts. 

“What, ‘fine?’” Tony asks, bitterly, his voice ratcheting up, spitting the words out. “Is this what fine is? It doesn’t feel like it to me.”

Steve’s still bleeding steadily.  Maybe the claws were poisoned after all. “No. It’s not.  It’s what there is.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Tony shouts, incredulous.

“It’s better than not being with you,” Steve says.  He’s quiet. But he’s also pale.  And he’s lost a lot of blood. He leans up against a wall, trying to look casual. 

Tony’s done with it.  He grabs Steve and flies to the tower. When they touch down, Steve’s skin is clammy and pale, but he stops outside, plants himself firmly, and says, “The cuffs.”

Tony swears. He takes the elevator down, grabs the cuffs.  He sees his reflection in one of the glass panels.  He’s covered in Steve’s blood, red on red.  It looks like his nightmares. 

Steve holds out his wrists, still resting his head on his knees where he’s sitting on the landing platform.  Tony fastens the cuffs around him. He’s gentle.  He can’t help himself. He helps Steve up, hearing the strain it takes him to breathe.  They get to the workshop and Steve slumps back on a bench.  His eyes hold an apology, but he doesn’t have the breath to say it. 

Tony isn’t a doctor.  He isn’t even Bruce, wherever the hell he is.  He’s got nothing, just old-fashioned first aid, but he has to do something.  He washes the cut with soap and water. It has to sting.  Steve says nothing, just watches him, like the first time, blue eyes vivid and clear, framed by unreasonable lashes.  Tony stitches the wound up neatly and coats it with a mild antibiotic.  He’s not sure any of it will work. 

He steps out of the suit entirely, although he leaves it in sentry mode in the corner.  He busies himself heating up a couple cans of soup he finds in his emergency stash and washing the blood from his hands.  He scrubs until the skin is raw and red and then scrubs some more. His back is to Steve.  He looks into the mirror when he turns off the water, meets Steve’s eyes.  He sees him blink rapidly, knows exactly how he feels.

He brings the soup over to Steve, who can’t exactly feed himself in those restraints.  He spoons some up for him. “I could just take them off, you know.”

“I’d rather keep them on,” Steve says, voice thin but returning.

“Whatever you say, Cap,” Tony replies.  Then stops, a spoon midair.  “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve tells him. He lets Tony feed him the soup.  “You need to eat, too.”

Tony looks down at the bowl.  It’s alphabet, tiny letters of pasta swimming around.  He pokes at them, rearranging them into words, wishes he could unscramble his thoughts as easily. Steve’s watching him still. 

“You have to actually eat the soup for it to do any good, it’s not Boggle.” He sounds amused, not annoyed. He sounds fond.

“When have you played Boggle?” Tony asks, but he does slurp up two Gs and a green bean.

“I have a lot of spare time now,” Steve says. He turns his hands, flexing his fingers, trying to keep blood in all the right places. 

“This is ridiculous,” Tony exclaims. He undoes the cuffs before Steve can refuse, pulls him up and resettles him on the couch.  Steve has that look on his face.  Damnit.  “Okay, okay, compromise, then,” Tony says. He cuffs one wrist to a water line.  It should be comfortable. He sits down on a stool nearby.  He towers over Steve. That isn’t lost on either of them.

“Okay,” Steve agrees.  “Thank you.  Eat your soup.”

“You’re a really cranky old man, you know that? It’s a good thing you don’t have a lawn.” Tony eats his soup. They’re being nice.  He can be nice. He finishes up and takes another look at the cut on Steve’s chest.  Whatever anticoagulants were on those claws seem to have been washed out.  It’s healing nicely.  His color is back. 

 “Why did you take his side?” Tony demands, finally.

“I didn’t.  I took yours.”

“Bullshit, that’s not what happened.  I was there.  You took his side.”

“Tony, you said… You said we have to be better.  That we exist to save lives.  That we fight to make sure that no one is above the law, not even us.  You were going to kill him.”

Tony says nothing for a moment.  Then, “I know. But you defended him.”

Steve draws in a deep breath. It quavers.  “No.  I lost him.  I lost him and they found him and now, he’ll never be the same.  He remembers everyone.  Every single hit they sent him on.  It’s most of why he’s in cryo, I think.” Steve at last looks at him.  “I lost perspective.  I couldn’t lose you that way.  I had to stop you because you would have killed him.  And you’ve been drowning in guilt as long as I’ve known you. I would have lost you, the person I know, the person I… The Tony Stark I know would have been gone. We’ve all killed people, in battle. It weighs on us. This was different. You’re not a murderer, Tony.  I had to stand for you.  The way you would have done for me. The way you do. Always making sure I’m the best version of myself I can be.”

“That’s not how it felt,” Tony says. He feels gutted.

“I know,” Steve replies. “I’m sorry.” He draws his knees up onto the couch, rests his head on them, looks up at Tony like he’s saying goodbye. He tries to smile, that Captain America smile, the smile that says that he’s okay, everything’s okay, even though nothing is okay and they’re both a little broken.

Tony reaches out with the back of his hand, his palm away from Steve, even with no gauntlet. He strokes the back of his fingers down Steve’s cheek.  Steve shudders, his whole body trembles, his eyes close, his lashes are damp. Tony’s eyes are wet and his lungs are burning. 

“I want to try again,” Tony says. He means it. 

Steve opens his eyes. “Yes,” he says, and Tony knows it’s a promise.

They’re not starry-eyed and naïve. They know it's a long road, that they'll have to rebuild, to work hard at it. But Tony has always been a risk-taker and Steve has always been stubborn as hell.  They can find a way.


End file.
